


worn by salt and sway into this threadbare beauty.

by henryclerval



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Oral Sex, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Slurs, Stream of Consciousness, Unreliable Narrator, Wet Dream, warm up fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-07
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2018-01-23 21:35:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1580348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/henryclerval/pseuds/henryclerval
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve’s on his knees before Bucky can say much otherwise; all lips and fingers on the inside of Bucky’s thighs like they’d done it a hundred times before, like Steve was a damn mind reader with knowing just what exactly to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	worn by salt and sway into this threadbare beauty.

His head is swimming, thick and wonderful and through the delirium Bucky can feel someone pressing into him—onto him, soft against his skin but tangible all the same. He shivers under the touch, fingertips twitching to life as he sees through underneath his eyelids. 

Or maybe his eyes are open—the colors are swimming, spotty, he doesn’t know who is on him and who he is, all of it is simple motion and kisses that seem to want to stay around his sternum. Which is fine. It’s more than he has gotten recently and who is he to say that they shouldn’t enjoy what he’s got to offer? He can’t blame them for wanting to take in as much as they can, while they can. 

Because this is rushed. 

There’s an urgency that hangs above Bucky’s head that doesn’t seem to match the mystery mouth meandering upward, pressing against his clavicle, and Bucky’s heart decides to pick up the pace. They’re—where are they? He strains his eyes, swirling and unfocused, squints and tries to pinpoint some kind of point of reference. The mouth on his shoulder distracts him well enough, dragging him from his focus until his whole body feels so light and the warmth on his neck drags from crook to Adam’s Apple, practiced and easy and the noise that Bucky makes is close to unholy. 

He doesn’t even know who it is—can’t think over the way that hands ghost over his torso, over his stomach, barely there touches that makes his whole body twitch. His mind flips through a little black book of names, desperate for something to make the edges of his vision a little sharper, a touch more defined as he grasps for purchase on that figure—above him? In front of him? Below him? 

All that Bucky grabs is skin and bones. It’s thin cloth draped over a skinny frame and even in the way that his mind saunters about the room, the realization in his hands cements the moment. 

_Steve_ is what Bucky wheezes out, though there’s no sound to show that Steve heard him in the first place. No change in movement, no change in pace—bony fingers press and prod against Bucky with more assurance, more real than they had been before, warm and without callouses. Bucky sucks in a breath and holds onto it like he’s going to die; as much as he wants to look down his body isn’t working with him, all he can manage is that burning air in his lungs as Steve kisses and touches and searches his skin. 

The room finally comes into view—their apartment is lighter, brighter, soft pastels touched upon the rotting wood of the floors and the peeling paper that they’ve fixed with bubblegum. Somehow Steve’s got him sitting inches back from the edge of the bed, leaning and kissing and petting and all Bucky can seem to do is grapple helplessly at that oversized nightshirt. 

But when he chokes on his breath, it blooms into a hiccup loud enough to catch Steve’s attention. To pull him back from where he’d been running his mouth all up and down Bucky’s torso. To let his eyes laze over where Bucky sits—apparently sans pants, shirts, underwear, where had it all gone? He starts to wonder why he isn’t cold until he sees Steve’s eyes flicker back upward, as much up and down as his fingers had painted, and something hungry smooths over Steve’s face. 

It’s enough to make a speckled blush erupt onto Bucky’s skin. 

Steve’s on his knees before Bucky can say much otherwise; all lips and fingers on the inside of Bucky’s thighs like they’d done it a hundred times before, like Steve was a damn mind reader with knowing just what exactly to do. Like he knows how selfishly Bucky wants to watch and he’s glad to put on a show—all sloppy as he gets closer and closer to Bucky’s prick, loosely wrapping his hand around it while he keeps his mouth on the crux of leg and groin. 

And Steve looks up at him and Bucky thinks that he’s never seen something so nice in all his life or what dares to come after. And then he’s got the audacity to move his lips to the head of Bucky’s prick—just by it, just hovering over it, not sympathetic enough to Bucky’s current plight to get to work—and Bucky wonders why they don’t make paintings of this. Of Steve Rogers flushed on his knees, hair curling out of place, and two seconds from sucking him off. It’s the most beautiful thing Bucky thinks he’s ever seen and he wants to know if Steve would ever be interested in a commission. 

But then Steve puts his mouth against the head of Bucky’s prick and another whole-body twitch flicks Bucky’s hand into Steve’s hair, somehow entwining his fingers into knots with a barely-there sob. _Jesus Christ_ , because it’s somehow easier than keeping to his manners at this point, _just get on with it_.

And that smirk, that wired and tight across Steve’s cheeks smirk is there seconds before his lips part around Bucky’s dick, sinking down with an ease that must have—that surely had come from them doing this multiple times. And because they’ve done this so many times, Steve knows that perfect twist of his hand to meet his mouth, how to press his tongue up so it keeps dragging with his movements nice and slow, and Bucky doesn’t think he’s ever gripped something as strongly as the grip he’s got on Steve’s hair. 

Steve meets his eyes just once—waiting for Bucky to stop watching the way his lips wrap around his own dick—and suddenly Bucky’s lurching, heaving, starving for breath in a dark and freezing apartment. 

The adjustment takes several moments to navigate; there are no pastels softening their room, the window pane is rattling against the heavy wind, and no matter how wide Bucky’s eyes stretch there’s a finite amount of light in the room. His chest surges to keep up with him as he fidgets in his bed, glancing around for context clues. 

Steve is in his bed, far on the other side of the room where the draft from the window won’t do more damage to his health, snoring just loud enough to be heard over the rushing of blood in Bucky’s ears. He’s tucked in, the exact same position as when he’d fallen asleep. Even in the sparse moonlight, Bucky can see the wide outline of Steve’s mouth smashed against his pillow. 

The flush to Bucky’s face is shameful and disgusting and it churns his stomach almost as much as when he shifts to turn away from the sight, and feels the damp spot in his shorts quickly chilling over. In the dark his embarrassment is tangible enough for him to stay hidden under the covers, glaring daggers at the thin window as the heat travels from high on his cheeks all the way to his ears. 

He’s a grown man for Christ’s sake, and it’s the guilt and self-chastising that gets him out of bed to face the bitter sting of wooden floors and the prickling against his sweaty skin, creeping and creaking past Steve’s bed and into their rickety bathroom to hurriedly strip and try to wash out the stain before it sets too badly. He’s a grown man; there’s no reason for this to happen anymore, let alone for him to dare go about thinking—let alone dreaming—of Steve that way. 

His glare leaves his shorts long enough to peek in the mirror, meet that heavy, guilty frown, and go back to work. He knows fully well that he’s started and finished fights over matters much less weighty than this one—fights that have left his heart racing and his knuckles raw, he thinks, but the men at the docks will maybe think for half a second longer about stringing Steve’s name alongside _faggot _—and how can he be much better than them when scrubbing the stain out leaves his heart as pounding and his knuckles as red?__

__When he settles back into bed—his shorts uncomfortably damp, but less stained—he turns his face to the wall, curling his body up tight and glaring so hard that his eyes start to strain, and feels a knot start to form in his throat with the pretty, sleepy sigh Steve sputters out from across the room._ _


End file.
